by John Boyne
‘Good, good,’ said the voice, the captain’s. ‘For I will need him and his memory for what lies ahead.’
And after that, it was sleep again.
In August, some six weeks after we arrived at Timor, the crew of the Bounty’s launch were given passage on a Dutch ship, the Resource, towards Java, from where trade ships were departing for Europe and would give us safe passage home. I was fortunate in that I had almost two weeks in which to recover, during which time I took exercise and reinstated a healthy diet, which daily improved my physique and banished my pallor.
Not all were as fortunate as I, however.
It grieves me to report that, in the period between our tub crew sighting land and the day that I opened my eyes again, we lost five of our fellows, men who had survived the forty-eight days at sea but who were all but dead by the time we reached Timor. Peter Linkletter, the quartermaster, survived no more than an hour or two after we reached land and it seems that he never knew that we had arrived safety; in truth, he had been half-dead for two or three days by then and had been merely waiting for the Saviour to take notice of him and finish the job. By nightfall of that day we had lost Robert Lamb too, the ship’s butcher, who had become terrible ill, as I recall, during the last week in the tub but who had collapsed in a seizure soon after stepping on to dry land.
The captain spoke with great regret of the loss of the Bounty’s botanist, David Nelson, who could not be revived with food or water and was called home on the second day after our arrival. I believe it vexed Mr Bligh in particular to lose him, as he was the last link to the breadfruit of Otaheite, a man who had felt as passionately about our mission as the captain himself, and one the captain hoped would speak up for him when we returned to England.
Following the ordinary sailing men who did not survive long was Mr Elphinstone, that poor fellow; he became the only warranted officer to die. Like all of us he had been in terrible disrepair when we reached Timor, but whereas I had been fortunate to gather my senses and rally my health, he had loss all strength and had passed a couple of days later.
And then, finally, the day after I awoke, we lost Thomas Hall, the cook, and I felt a great sadness at it, for he had been uncommon kind to me while we were on board the ship, and if he made our dinners with as much care as a dog or a filthy pig has for taste or hygiene, he made them all the same and I thought him a fine fellow and a friend as well. Mr Hall’s funeral was the only one that I had the ability to attend and the pressure of our situation, the gradual comprehension of what we had suffered and endured, and the fact that I awoke to so much death, left me in a terrible condition and I wept like a bairn when we put him in the ground. The captain had to take me away to my bunk lest I made a holy show of myself.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said I, drying my eyes as I sat there, feeling as if a single kind word from him would bring more and more tears – more than tears, great whelps of unhappiness and misery pouring from my eyes.
‘Don’t be sorry, lad,’ he said. ‘We have been a crew of men, these last seven weeks. Aye, and these last two years. Why should you not weep for your fallen comrades?’
‘But why did I survive?’ I asked. ‘Why did the Saviour choose to—?’
‘Ask not that question,’ he said sharply, silencing me immediately. ‘The Good Lord makes His choices of who shall stay and who shall be called home. It is not for us to question Him.’
‘But I thought I was dead, sir,’ I told him, the great grief rising again. ‘Those last days in the tub. I felt it around me. I felt that my life was at an end, that for me there would be no future.’
‘I thought so too, lad,’ he said, with scarce a thought for how such a line might affect me. ‘Indeed, I was sure that you had passed at one point a few hours before we reached land and I took it mighty hard, mighty hard indeed. But you have strength that you did not know you had. You have built it up, lad, can’t you see that? During our time together? You have become a man.’
I did not feel like a man as I sat there, weeping on his shoulder, but he allowed me to do it, that gentle man, and didn’t make me feel a nance for it, and when I was finished he said that that was enough tears, I had got them out, and there were to be no more or he’d know the reason why.
And I said, ‘Aye, sir,’ and I didn’t cry again.
Thirteen men from the original crew of nineteen who had been deposed from their rightful home aboard the Bounty boarded the Resource for safe passage to Java; we had lost a third of our number: the five recent casualties and, earlier, John Norton, who was lost to us when his head was smashed by savages on that first island we visited. A time that seemed like many years before.
I felt sure there would be great excitement among the men, a feeling that we were a band who would never be parted after our adventures, but to my surprise the atmosphere on board that ship was very low indeed. I noted a great muttering of resentment from the other fellows towards the captain, despite the fact that he had steered us successfully from the middle of the ocean to a place where we would surely be delivered home safely, but gratitude came there none and it appeared that the moment had arrived for recrimination.
An almighty row broke out one evening between the captain and Mr Fryer – the argument that they had been heading towards for the last two years – and things were said that should never have been said. Mr Fryer accused the captain of causing the mutiny himself by his behaviour towards the men: taking back privileges that he had honoured them with, treating them as if they were his personal chattel, and skipping between moods, from extreme cheer to dour low spirits, like a bride before her wedding day. The captain would have none of it and replied that Mr Fryer had never been the master that he had hoped for. He said that when he was a dozen years younger than Mr Fryer he himself had been Captain Cook’s master and had done it at the age of twenty and one. What kind of an officer, he asked, does not have a captaincy by that age?
‘You, sir, are not a captain,’ countered Mr Fryer, flying an arrow through the captain’s Achilles’ heel. ‘You have the same rank as I, sir, a lieutenant.’
‘But I have command, sir, I have command!’ screamed the captain, his face red with a fury. ‘A command that you shall never have.’
‘I would not want one such as yours,’ he shouted in reply. ‘And as for being Captain Cook’s master?’ He shook his head and, to his shame, spat on the ground beneath his feet. ‘An honest man would take note of his own deeds on that dark day.’
That was enough – more than enough – for Mr Bligh, who I thought would seek a cutlass and disembowel Mr Fryer on the spot, but instead he merely swore at him and ran towards him, their faces separated by no more than a kiss, although Mr Fryer held his ground bravely, and the captain denounced him for a coward and a charlatan and asked him why, if he thought so low of him, had he not joined his friend Mr Christian and returned to his despicable ways on the island of Otaheite.
‘Fletcher Christian is no friend of mine,’ roared Mr Fryer. ‘Did I not leave the ship with him? Did I not sit by your side every league of the sea from there to here? And you dare accuse me of—’
‘I’ll accuse you of whatever in hell I want to accuse you of,’ shouted the captain. ‘I call you a coward, sir, do you hear me, and I’ll see you hang for your behaviour and your insubordination.’
A great cry went up among the men now and two of them, William Purcell and John Hallett, rushed to the master’s side and began to roar at the captain, accusing him of leading us to this unhappy day and insisting that their voices would be heard when we returned to England. That was enough for Mr Bligh, who called out to the master-at-arms of the Resource and, would you believe it, within a very few hours all three of those men – Fryer, Purcell and Hallett – were under arrest and sitting in chains and solitude down below, all the better, according to the captain, for them to consider their behaviour to date.
It was a dark atmosphere on board and for the first time I wondered whether we – and, really, I mean the capta
in – would be considered heroes when we returned to England as I had always assumed.
Or whether we would be viewed as something different entirely.
We arrived in Java with all our moods in disarray and I knew not what course this story of ours would take, whether men would continue to mutiny and fight until we reached England, where wiser heads could separate us all and provide a fitting ending.
The head of the settlement in Java informed the captain that two ships were set for England over the weeks that followed; the first, a Dutch ship called the Vlijt, was to sail in a few days’ time, the second not for another week after that. These were trade ships and not designed for passengers, although the second could take the bulk of the crew. Having been informed that the Vlijt could manage no more than three berths, the captain selected his clerk, Mr Samuel, and me to join him.
‘Sir, I protest,’ said Mr Fryer, who had been released from his manacles in the meantime but continued to remain under charges. ‘As second-in-command, I should travel with you on the first craft.’
‘You have not been second-in-command since your insubordination,’ replied the captain quietly, in a tone that suggested he did not care to argue any more, that soon enough this drama would cease. ‘And if you still consider yourself an officer of the king, then I suggest you take charge of those men I leave in your care. We shall meet up soon enough in England, I warrant.’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Mr Fryer, narrowing his eyes. ‘We shall indeed.’
‘I said as much, did I not?’ snapped the captain, and to my eyes they were a pair of infants who needed thrashing.
All the surviving crew came to the port to say their goodbyes to us, however, and the captain made a point of shaking every man’s hand, including Mr Fryer’s, and wishing them Godspeed and safe passage back to England, before stepping up the gangway with his books and his writing folders and disappearing from our view. He was followed by Mr Samuel a few moments later, which left me on my own, preparing to say my goodbyes to these men I had known for so long and who had fought with me during our forty-eight-day ordeal, and who had survived alongside me.
‘Goodbye, men,’ I said and I swear that it was a difficult thing for me not to be moved by the experience, for I felt an uncommon affection for every one of them. ‘We have seen some times, have we not?’
‘We have, lad,’ said William Peckover, whose eyes were glassy too. ‘I’ll shake your hand before you go.’
I nodded and shook it, shook every man’s, and each one said, ‘Good luck to you, Turnip,’ or ‘We’ll see you in England, Turnip,’ and seemed sorry to see me go. It felt curious that our adventures were at an end.
‘Goodbye, Mr Fryer, sir,’ said I as I stepped towards the gangway and he walked with me a little way, out of the hearing of the other men. ‘Might I be so bold as to say it has been a pleasure to serve with you, sir. I have a great deal of respect for you.’ I swallowed nervously, for it was a bold comment.
‘And I thank you for it, John Jacob,’ he said, addressing me by my Christian names for once. ‘You are looking forward to returning home?’
‘I’m trying not to think too deeply on it, sir.’
‘You will be there before us, of course. I would ask you . . .’ He hesitated and bit his lip for a moment, considering his words carefully. ‘Master Turnstile,’ he said, ‘when you return to England, there will be many questions asked and many cases to be answered. You have a loyalty to the captain, of course you do. I do myself if the damn fool would only recognize it.’
‘Sir—,’ I began, but he cut me off.
‘I don’t say it to blacken his name, lad,’ he said. ‘I say it because it is so. All I would ask of you is that you answer with honesty and decency any questions that are sent your way. Your loyalties, you see, are not to the captain, nor to me, nor even to the king. But to yourself. You may not even understand the value of the things you have seen and heard, but if you report fairly and truthfully, then there is no more that any man can ask of you. Neither the captain nor I. Nor even Mr Christian and his band of ruffians. Do you understand that?’
‘Aye, sir,’ I said, and I did and promised that it would be so.
‘Then, I’ll shake your hand,’ he said, ‘and wish you a safe journey home.’
I stretched my hand out and he looked at it for a moment but seemed to think better of it and reached forward, gathering me into his arms, and held me there for a moment. ‘You have been a fine sailing companion,’ he said quietly into my ear. ‘And would make a very fine sailor. You should think on it.’
‘Me, sir?’ I asked, stepping away and raising an eyebrow.
‘Aye, you, sir,’ he said. ‘Think on it, won’t you?’
And with that he turned away and led his men back towards the settlement, where they would stay until it was time for their own ship to depart.
And so our final voyage began, the journey that was to take us home.
The captain had no official responsibilities on board and, although he was happy to lend any assistance that was required of him, he became little more than a highly ranked passenger. Most evenings he ate alone in his cabin, but from time to time he joined the officers and captain of the Vlijt for the evening meal. I sensed that he did not enjoy this, however, for our hosts looked at him in wonderment, questioning how a captain of one of His Majesty’s frigates could possibly have lost his ship.
I believe this was a question that he too was asking himself throughout the journey home.
For my part, I had little to do either. The captain of the Vlijt had his own servant-lad to take care of him, so I helped Captain Bligh when he needed something, but that was not often, and I found myself increasingly bored and prone to daydreams as our journey continued. I had food in my belly, of course, and was well hydrated, but there was none of the drama on board this ship of trade that there had been on the Bounty and even the weather remained clement throughout most of our journey. In truth, I rather missed the excitement of it.
Captain Bligh tended to his notebooks during this time and continued to write his account of our voyage and the mutiny, the better to prepare himself for what Mr Fryer had referred to as the ‘serious questions’ that would greet us on our return. He also wrote long letters to Sir Joseph Banks, to the admirals of the navy, and to his wife Betsey, although why he bothered when he would see them before they could be delivered was a mystery to me.
Before setting forth, he had made a list of all the mutineers, along with descriptions of their physical appearance and character, and these were in turn distributed to various ports; he hoped that this would be the start of their capture, but I was less certain that this would happen.
And then, on the morning of 13th March 1790, a full two years and three months after we had left Spithead, our ship brought us to England. She brought us home.
Lieutenant William Bligh, a captain without a ship.
And John Jacob Turnstile, a young man now of sixteen, with nowhere to call his own.
90
THE STREETS OF PORTSMOUTH HAD always seemed very wide to me as a child. The town had appeared enormous, as if the entire world was contained therein. The people had felt like the only people of any significance. But walking along those narrow paths again I couldn’t help but be struck by how small they were, or perhaps how much broader my horizons had grown. I was not the same lad who had left there on that cold December morning in 1787. I could feel the difference immediately.
Some time had passed since we had returned to England and, although I had duties in London that I was shortly to attend to, I found that I had a week at my disposal and decided to return to the place of my birth and my rearing and see it once again.
Arriving there, my stomach twisted and turned with a certain apprehension at the idea of seeing Mr Lewis again, although I did not fear him as much as I once had. Throughout much of my voyage on the Bounty I had been planning an escape, attempting to find any place where I might run off to and avoid returning to his da
rk gaze. And now I was here of my own volition. I felt strong inside when I considered it, but nevertheless I was nervous too.
I made my way along the streets and my feet took me to the very spot where my adventures had begun. The bookstore where the Frenchman, Mr Zéla, had conversed with me while I had sought a way to steal his pocket-watch. The fruit and vegetable stalls still stood, the people were the same, but they did not leap atop me now or seek to rip me limb from limb; rather, they called out to me that their apples and walnuts were the best in the land, the finest I could find if I travelled from Land’s End to John O’Groats, and would I not buy some off them? I was better dressed than I had been before, that was the crux of it. And my hair had been trimmed short and neat. The navy had issued me with a fine pair of britches and a couple of chemises and I looked for all the world like a proper young gentleman.
‘Care to buy a handkerchief, sir?’ asked a voice behind me. I turned round and who did I see, only Floss Mackey, her as I had sold ’kerchiefs to myself in my earlier days. I would steal them from a gentleman and she would pick the monogram away for a farthing so I could sell them on for a penny. ‘They’re very fine ’kerchiefs, sir,’ she added. ‘You won’t find better.’
‘But don’t you know me, Floss?’ I asked, offering her a smile, and she frowned and looked a little nervous, as if I was about to accuse her of something untoward and summon a blue to hear the charge.
‘No, sir,’ she said quickly. ‘And if you think there’s anything wrong with these items, then you’re under no obligation to purchase and I shall bid you good day.’
‘Floss, it’s me, John Jacob Turnstile. Don’t you remember me?’
She stared at me for a moment and then her mouth dropped open as her eyes grew wide, and I thought she was about to take a stumble out of surprise. ‘It never is,’ she said.